Sword of Shame (30 page)

Bartholomew understood her discomfort, given the way she was dressed–and he could hear a distant bell announcing the office of
nones
; Rose was breaking several of her Order's rules.

Michael's expression was stern. ‘My Bishop deposed a prioress of Ickleton five years ago for permitting licentious behaviour among her nuns. Perhaps her successor's morals are no better.'

Rose pouted prettily. ‘Sir Philip Lymbury invited me to hunt–to give me an opportunity to exercise his horses and provide fresh meat for my sisters. What is wrong with that? Besides, the party includes Chaplain Dole and William the Vicar, so it is all perfectly respectable.'

Michael's expression said there was a very great deal wrong with that, particularly since he was not convinced that the clerics in question were particularly righteous ones. But before he could speak, there was another
thud of hoofs, and two more people appeared. One was a large lady in a tight green kirtle. Her head-dress was in disarray, and she made a hasty attempt to straighten it when she spotted Askyl. The second was an elderly nun on a mule, who looked as though she heartily wished she were somewhere else, and who winced as though riding caused her pain.

‘You should have waited,' said the woman in green, regarding Sister Rose angrily. ‘It was unkind to ask us to put the deer on your horse, then canter off alone. Tell her, Sir Elias.'

‘Very mischievous,' said the knight uncomfortably, not looking at either woman. ‘You should probably apologize.'

‘I do not think so,' said Sister Rose coolly. She turned to Michael again. ‘This is Lady Joan Lymbury, wife to the lord of several local manors, which she thinks makes her better than the rest of us. And my escort, to keep me free from sin on this wicked outing, is Dame Pauline de Gras.'

Pauline looked Michael up and down with sharp black eyes. ‘The Bishop is always sending spies to learn why our priory is poor, and you have the portly look of an Ely monk about you. Have you come to paw through our accounts again–
my
accounts, since I am the only one there who can write?'

Bartholomew struggled not to laugh. He had visited Ely Abbey, and had never seen so many well-fed men; Michael had appeared positively slender beside some of the monstrous girths that waddled through its cloisters. Michael regarded her icily, he disliked people commenting on his weight.

‘I may inspect them, if I feel it necessary,' he replied stiffly. ‘However, the main reason for our visit is to collect the rent from Valence Manor.'

‘That may be difficult,' said Pauline defiantly.
‘Lymbury gave it to our priory, and
we
are in desperate need.'

‘So is Michaelhouse,' said Michael tartly. ‘And if you saw our latrines, you would know why.'

‘But
we
need the money for food,' argued Pauline. She eyed Michael's paunch meaningfully.

‘Ah,' said Dole, ‘
you
wrote the letter to the scholars, did you, madam? Telling them that Lymbury had given Michaelhouse's rent to—'

‘What letter?' demanded Pauline. ‘I have scribed no letters–especially ones that bring greedy men here in an attempt to deprive us of something that was freely given. Do you think me a fool?'

‘You are in an awkward position,' muttered Bartholomew in an aside to Michael, when Sister Rose and Lady Joan started to quarrel about who had shot the deer, both vying for the attention of the god-like Askyl. ‘You have your College on one hand, and a house of your Order on the other. You may find your loyalties conflict. Do you want to return to Cambridge, and leave me to deal with this?'

‘You are not sufficiently cunning,' replied Michael in a whisper. ‘And sly nuns will take advantage of you. I do not like the look of their companions, either–those dubious clerics or that pretty knight. We should stick together if we want to best them.'

‘I want to go home,' announced Dame Pauline, flailing with her heels in an attempt to move the mule. It snickered angrily and continued to eat grass. ‘My bones ache from all this bouncing about–just as I told the prioress they would. Is this any way to treat the only literate woman in her convent?'

‘Perhaps Lady Joan will give you ten marks from her clothing allowance, Brother,' said Sister Rose, abandoning her row with the lady of the manor, and turning to Michael. She smiled alluringly as she adjusted her
low neckline. ‘She and Sir Philip are
very
wealthy–they rent Valence Manor from Michaelhouse, but they own other estates, too.'

Joan pulled a face at her as she addressed Michael. ‘This nun foisted herself on our hunt, but my real companions are these gentlemen. There are the two priests, and then there is Sir Elias Askyl.'

Even Bartholomew, not always astute when it came to romantic entanglements, could not fail to notice the smouldering glance she shot in the knight's direction. Askyl returned the look with an expression the physician found hard to interpret. Was it pleasure that he had captured the affections of his host's wife, or an indication that the attraction was shared? He found the latter hard to believe: Joan was heavily built and plain-faced. However, he knew there was no accounting for taste.

‘Sir Elias is a
very
brave knight,' added Rose, treating Askyl to a simper of her own. Askyl bowed in a way that was flirtatious, and Bartholomew wondered what was going on. He glanced at the two clerics, to see if he could gauge anything from their reactions. William was laughing, but his amusement seemed to derive from the fact that Dole's ravaged face was as black as thunder. Did Chaplain Dole hold a fancy for the nun, and resent the fact that she preferred Askyl? But why should William find pleasure in an old comrade's discomfort?

‘Sister Rose has taken the veil,' gloated Joan. ‘Therefore, most things are forbidden to her, including very brave knights.'

‘I am not a nun yet,' said Rose. ‘I may not take my vows–it depends on what else comes along.'

‘You have a true sense of vocation, then,' remarked Michael caustically.

‘
I
have one,' said old Pauline, still trying to drag her
mule away from its grass. ‘And it involves an afternoon doze in a cool dormitory before supper. If I do not get it, I shall be vexed.'

‘You are always vexed,' said Rose with a sigh. ‘Prioress Christiana was cruel to foist you on me–you have done nothing but whine all day. Go home then, and leave Sir Elias and me to take this carcass to the manor-house. Perhaps Sir Philip will spare you its hooves for a soothing broth.'

‘He had better not,' declared Pauline venomously. ‘Not when I was promised a haunch. Sir Philip is always forcing me out on these vile jaunts–he likes your company and the prioress will not let you go alone. But she should put a stop to it.'

‘Prioress Christiana is afraid of losing Sir Philip's good will,' explained Sister Rose smugly to Michael, trying to annoy the old nun by revealing confidences the priory would probably prefer kept to itself. ‘He supplies the priory with eggs, and she dares not risk such a valuable resource. She knows my company pleases him, so she lets me go to him whenever he asks.'

She shot Lady Joan a spiteful glance, to see whether the comment had aggravated her rival, too.

It had. Joan glowered sullenly. ‘I tell my husband I dislike hunting with nuns, but he always says the priory needs the fresh meat Sister Rose provides. It is not fair because, more often than not, he does not hunt himself, which leaves
me
in the company of dull monastic ladies.'

‘Lord!' muttered Michael to Bartholomew, when the hunting party began to debate whether meat was of any use to women who knelt around praying all day. ‘What is going on? Joan is married to Lymbury, but clearly adores Askyl. Sister Rose also admires Askyl, but seems to have some sort of understanding
with Lymbury. Not surprisingly, the two women detest each other. I cannot decide which of the pair Askyl prefers, but Chaplain Dole has a definite hankering for Rose.'

‘Meanwhile, Dole and William the Vicar are at loggerheads,' added Bartholomew. ‘And Dame Pauline seems to hate everyone. We have walked into a war.'

Askyl sighed, indicating he was bored with the discussion, and steered his horse towards home. Bartholomew watched fascinated, as Joan and Rose jostled each other to ride next to him. Joan emerged the victor, because her horse was larger, and Rose was livid when she was forced to drop behind. William and Dole hastened to join her, and the former shot a triumphant glance at the latter when he got there first. Chaplain Dole fingered the dagger in his belt as he watched them go, an expression of dark resentment on his face.

‘I had better engage Dole in polite conversation before we witness a murder,' said Michael. ‘And you should help Pauline: her mule will still be eating grass tomorrow unless someone steps in.'

Bartholomew led his horse and Pauline's mule along the woodland track, well behind the others. The old nun began a litany of complaints about everything–from her painful hips to the muddy taste of river trout–and he reflected wryly that her conversation was no more edifying than Michael's had been.

Eventually, they emerged from the trees and followed a brook through pretty water-meadows. As they approached the village, Bartholomew saw people hoeing the fields. The labourers stopped work to watch the little cavalcade pass, but none returned the physician's friendly greetings.

The village comprised small crofts scattered along a winding road. A large and unusually beautiful
church nestled in the heart of the settlement; Michaelhouse's manor lay to its south-east, and the priory to its west. The land was flat, and most trees had been felled for building or firewood, so Bartholomew could see for a considerable distance. He commented to Pauline that some houses were larger than the others. She told him there were several manors in the parish, some of which were owned by Lymbury, although he preferred to live in the one he rented from Michaelhouse because of its central location and its new tiled roof. She pointed to it–a fine hall set amid a range of thatched outbuildings. A track fringed with young oaks led to its front door, and Askyl, who was in the lead, was just about to turn down it, when a youth stumbled towards them. The boy's face was red, and he was panting so hard he could barely breathe. He wore a fine new tunic, so white it hurt the eyes in the strong sunlight.

‘There you are, Father,' he gasped to William. ‘I have been looking for you ever since this morning–I must have run miles! Sir Philip says please come straight away. He is composing his new will, and wants you to write it down for him.'

‘Lymbury is unwell?' asked Bartholomew, supposing mortal illness might explain the man's unusual attitude towards paying the rent.

William shook his head. ‘He is always making wills. I have scribed at least six since Poitiers.'

‘My husband always leaves me well provided for, though,' said Joan smugly. ‘
I
am no poor nun. If he dies, I shall have plenty with which to satisfy a new husband.'

Rose's expression was resentful. ‘Except beauty, of course. Still, a man could always have his daily bread from you, and go elsewhere for his meat. But my throat is dry, and I imagine Dame Pauline will appreciate a
cup of wine before returning to the priory. We shall avail ourselves of Sir Philip's hospitality, and listen to him dictating his latest will at the same time.'

Pauline glared at her. ‘I am tired, and want to go—'

‘It is very good wine,' said Rose firmly. She slid off her horse and marched towards the house before the nun could object further. Since Askyl was aiming for the door, too, Joan hurried to catch up with him, and Michael sniggered as all three became jammed in the entrance. William gave them a shove to relieve the blockage, and the entire contingent shot through in a rush, leaving the two scholars standing alone outside. Suddenly, there was a piercing scream. Michael and Bartholomew stared at each other for a moment, then entered the manor at a run–up the spiral stairs to the main hall on the first floor.

Valence Manor's chief room was a handsome solar, which smelled of wood smoke and the honeyed beeswax that had been used to polish its fine oaken floor–someone obviously took a great deal of trouble over it. The hunting party and the red-faced boy had gathered around a grey-haired man who sat in a chair near the hearth. At first, Bartholomew thought the fellow was asleep, but then he saw blood. When he looked at the back of the chair, he saw a sword had been thrust through the wooden panels with such force that it had skewered its victim from behind.

‘Stabbed in the back,' breathed William, appalled. ‘Lord have mercy on his soul.'

 

When no one did more than gaze at the corpse, Bartholomew went to inspect it. The sword had sliced through the soft tissues below the ribs, probably bringing instant death. The physician rested his hand on the man's neck, and felt the cool skin beneath his fingers. He also noted the blood was beginning to
congeal. The dead man clutched a gold coin in his clawed fingers, which Bartholomew showed to Michael. He expected the others to notice, too, but they were more intent on fixing each other with accusing stares.

Joan, who did not seem particularly distressed by the discovery of her husband stabbed in his own solar, rounded on the flushed youth. ‘I hope he did not destroy his previous wills before he started composing the new one.'

‘You poor thing,' said Rose, her voice contemptuous. ‘I see you are grief-stricken by your loss.'

Joan composed her face into an expression that approximated sorrow. ‘I am devastated,' she declared, taking Askyl's arm and clinging to it rather hard. ‘So I shall need my husband's friends around me, to console me in my time of need.'

‘You need a priest, not a soldier,' said Rose tartly. ‘Put Sir Elias down, and let Father William comfort you instead. It would be more seemly.'